


After Gotham

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Secret Six
Genre: Bad Flirting, Depression, Fights, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the events in Gotham, Bane retreats into himself completely.</p><p>Until Thomas starts trying to <em>kill</em> him.</p><p>Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Gotham

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanAm77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanAm77/gifts).



They all have their befores and afters. In some ways it's the best method they have for keeping track of time. The dividers can be people (like Knockout, or Jeannette), or places (like Hell, or Africa), or things (like births, or cancer). The only simple one is Nanaue, whose whole life is broken into periods of Before and During Dinner.

Bane is a man of many befores and afters. But at the moment, his life has been cut into Before and After Gotham.

That's what the Six see, at least.

Before Gotham, Bane was...active. He wasn't talkative, but he did speak. He ate meals with the team and took a hand in their dealings.

Now, After Gotham, he is a titan of silence. He doesn't interact with anyone. All he does is sit in his room, or in the library, and read.

 

–

 

Thomas tries to kill him for the first time a month After Gotham. He drops from the ceiling in the living room, claws on, snarling, as Bane returns from his solitary dinner.

Bane pins him in seconds, breaks two of his fingers, and dumps him in the hallway without another word.

 

–

 

The second attempt is a month after that. Thomas' fingers are still splinted, but he grips his claws tightly regardless. He waits _in_ the hallway this time.

Bane breaks his nose and leaves him on the kitchen table.

 

–

 

The third time they're in the library. Bane pins him again, hand around his throat this time, and says, “Why?”

Thomas snarls, “Wake up.”

“I am not asleep.”

“Says you.”

“That is what I say, yes.”

Thomas just rolls his eyes, wild over the tape on his nose.

Puzzled, Bane blacks his eye, but doesn't break anything this time.

 

–

 

The fourth time, Thomas is waiting in his room. His fingers are healed, his nose is still healing, and the bruising around his eye is turning to green. And this time he's not hiding. Just sitting there, his claws not even on, waiting for Bane to arrive.

Bane doesn't give him  _time_ to attack, just grabs him by the throat and slams him into the wall. “You wish me dead,” he says, calmly. “Why?”

“Bane.”

“Is it because I failed? Because I led you into peril?”

Thomas shakes his head—or at least, he tries to.

“Is there a bounty you wish to collect? Does my death gain you anything? Or is it simply the thrill of proving yourself the better fighter?”

“No.”

“I've bested you three times already, Blake. I know that thrill well.”

“Bane, I don't want you dead.”

Bane's grip tightens, slightly. “Then why do you seek my life? For fun? To stave off boredom? Do you wish death  _yourself?_ Because if you seek it I'll oblige you.”

“Attention.”

“This is not the military.”

“No.” And Thomas...looks to the side. As if he's embarrassed. “I wanted to  _get_ your attention.”

Bane peers at him, and then feels a curtain part in his mind and says, “Is this some manner of courtship?”

Thomas says nothing. But he  _blushes._

Bane stares at him a moment longer and then puts him outside.

Gently.

 

–

 

The fifth time is like the first, except that Bane is ready. In fact, he finds that the thought of impending combat energizes him, a nd he has not felt  so energized in some time.

When Thomas drops on him from the lintel of the kitchen door he almost smiles, suddenly pleased by the act of battle. They roll down the hallway together, startling Liana as she comes out of the living room and drawing a puzzled glance from Floyd as he passes them on his way upstairs. It's not  _much_ of a fight, but there's joy in it, more of the clash of two skilled fighters and less the utilitarian self-defense of a man who has simply decided that he doesn't yet wish to die.

Bane blacks Thomas' other eye, drops him outside the front door of the House, and returns to his room feeling...better.

 

–

 

There is a feeling in Bane's stomach now that, at first, confuses him. It's heat, of a kind; it simmers low in his abdomen as he considers where their next battle will be, how it will start, if Thomas will attack with his claws or barehanded.  It is a pleasurable tension, strange to him, unfamiliar in its sudden appearance.

Being of an analytical cast of mind, he considers it seriously, searches back through his memories and finds faces to link it with.

Talia al'Ghul.

Spencer.

The feeling, he realizes after some thought, is desire. It's certainly unusual for him, not a sensation he encounters with any great frequency.

_Does_ he desire?

_What_ does he desire?

It's a relief to feel  _something_ living in the shell that he realizes he's let his body become.

So that evening he joins the rest of the Six for dinner, and then sits up late into the night, pondering the nature of desire.

 

–

 

The sixth time—

The sixth time, the attack comes in his bedroom, he is triumphant as usual, he pins Thomas' shoulders to the floor, and as he sits astride his opponent and ponders an appropriate souvenir of the encounter—

Thomas blushes.

And looks away.

And the heat flares in Bane's abdomen, and his questions of late are answered.

_Desire._

Not for the combat. For the man.  Who is bruised, who is bloody, whose nose is now slightly crooked and at the moment bleeding, whose eyes are ringed with mismatched discolorations (one much darker than the other), who is looking up at him and saying, “Bane?”

Bane moves backwards a bit, hauls Thomas into a sitting position, and kisses him, biting his lower lip hard enough for it to bleed a little. Thomas makes a noise, half surprised pain and half something heated and other, and the noise itself is fuel to the desire.

Then, because it's how things go, Bane tosses him into the hallway and shuts the door.

The fight is over. All is finished. Yes?

No.

 

–

 

The next day, Bane eats his breakfast with the Six and then remains in the front of the House. He reads, as is his wont, rereading Sun Tzu's _Art of War_ for perhaps the thousandth time, and he watches Thomas, and watches Thomas watch the others.

Thomas finds Knockout attractive. It's obvious, in the way his eyes follow her, in the way he tenses as she brushes by him. In his wary self-possession when, at midday, they wrestle, and Knockout crows and proclaims that he reminds her of an old friend. That he is almost as skilled at combat as a woman.

And after lunch, Floyd takes a spot in the yard for target practice. He strips his shirt off in the pale warmth of early spring, and Thomas watches him from a tree.

There is heat in his gaze as Floyd stretches, shakes his arms out, and begins to fire at falling leaves and the clay pigeons Scandal tosses. Heat, and desire, and Bane feels another unusual sensation.

He's jealous. There is something in him, some possessive urge, that is making his chest tight. Thomas has turned his gaze on another man, and Bane is jealous.

 

–

 

The seventh time is not a fight.

It could have been one, perhaps, if Thomas had appeared unawares instead of knocking on his door.

He opens it, tense for an attack that doesn't come, and Thomas is there. His lower lip is scabbed from where Bane bit him, his eyes are fevered, and.

He looks desirable.

Bane says, “Come in,” shuts the door behind him, pins him to it, and says, “Why me?”

“Because you're attractive.”

“You lie.”

“I really don't.”

“Why me, Thomas Blake?”

Thomas takes a deep breath and says, “You're _Bane._ Who could want anyone else?”

The roar of jealousy. “Deadshot.”

“He's...compelling.”

And the purr of desire. “But you want me more.”

That blush again, a faint red stain across Thomas' cheekbones, but also a heated interest in his eyes as he says, “Yes.”

Bane is a man of many mother tongues, but his most bone-deep fluency is in the creole of the Santa Prisca prison, a dialect composed in equal parts of English, Spanish, Cantonese, Portuguese, Arabic, and raw expressed power. It is this language he speaks now as he presses forward, pushes a knee between Thomas' thighs, and growls, _“_ _What Bane takes, he keeps.”_

Thomas moans, understanding enough to gasp, “Ok. Yeah, ok.”

Bane's fingers are tight on his shoulders, and scabs tear when Bane kisses him. Blood on his tongue, and he desires. Oh, how he desires.

Thomas reaches up, wraps his arms around Bane's neck, and rocks against him, erection pressing hard into his thigh. He smells like sweat and spices, the rub he put on the steaks he made for dinner—he's been learning to cook something besides eggs. Work has been scarce; they all try to keep themselves occupied. They learn new things.

Spices.

Perhaps his skin tastes of them.

Bane leans down and presses his mouth to Thomas' neck, runs his tongue along corded muscle and jugular vein, and tastes. No spice, but it's a flavor he could explore, and without lifting his head he says, “I will take you to bed.”

“Yes,” Thomas says, and thrusts against him again, only his arms around Bane's neck holding him up now as he rides the larger man's thigh. “Ok, yes, what do you—”

It is high time for Bane to learn something new himself. “Everything. I will ask the world of you.”

He will learn this.

“Wh-whatever you say, Napoleon.”

He goes stiff.

The nickname is—

It is, he realizes as feels Thomas shuddering under his hands, truly meant, and the part of his mind that is separate from the roaring tide of want prompts him to say, “That was why you attacked me. You wish to be conquered. So you chose a conqueror.”

Thomas tries to reply, but his words trail off into an incoherent groan as Bane bites lightly at the side of his throat.

“And I will conquer.”

He picks Thomas up by the waist, turns, and hurls him onto the bed in one smooth movement. And there is, he suspects, a way he will be expected to speak, a manner in which he should behave, and it takes very little effort to rephrase what would be the speech of battle conquest into the speech of—he cannot think of a more appropriate word than _intimacy._ He composes what he should be saying in the seconds that it takes for clothes to come off. The pants will be salvageable; Thomas' shirt will never be wearable again.

“Tonight I will take you.” Climbs onto the bed after his conquest, forcing Thomas' legs apart again so that the other man can rut against his thigh, but holding down his wrists so that he cannot otherwise touch. “While you are still aching I will have your mouth, and then, when you have regained the ability to walk, I will take you again.”

Thomas makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, thrashing against Bane's grip, but it's obvious that he doesn't actually want to escape, only to enjoy the _pretense_ of escape. His hips jerk in an irregular rhythm.

With Talia he was fierce. With Spencer he was, inasmuch as he is capable, tender. Thomas, though, inspires, seems to _demand_ aggression, to require an animal show of force. Perhaps this is not true when he is with other lovers, but it is clearly the case when he is with Bane, and _that_ is all that matters.

“I will make you wait. I will make you beg. You will wait upon my pleasure, and _only_ my pleasure.” Bane frees one hand, holding Thomas' wrists in the other as he reaches for the bottle of lubricant that has previously served only his own very occasional physical needs. “Are the terms of your surrender acceptable, or do you wish to negotiate?”

“ _Christ,_ Bane, I think at this point if you _don't_ fuck me I'll _die._ ”

“I suspect that is impossible.” Bane thumbs the bottle of lube open and hesitates. Now they are entering...unexplored territory.

The pause stretches out for a moment, until Thomas raises an eyebrow at him, still red-faced, and says, “You have no idea what you're doing, do you.”

“...it cannot be that complicated.”

“Well, it's _not,_ but—have you ever _done_ this before?”

“Never with a man.”

“But with women...? I know Spencer—”

“Twice.”

“Twice with Spencer?”

“Twice total. Once with Spencer, once before with Talia al'Ghul.”

Thomas' eyes widen. “And between those times you never wanted to...?”

Bane suppresses his faint abashment. “No. Those who interest me are few and far between.”

“I'm flattered.” And he means it, clearly, there is a feline self-satisfaction in his eyes now. “But I think we need to renegotiate.”

Bane is never uncertain, but he listens intently to Thomas' murmurings, listens _more_ intently to his gasps and moans and the movements of his body. Using his finger first, and almost smiling when Thomas cuts off with a jolt in the middle of a sentence and resumes with nothing but, “Please.”

And Bane slides into him, feeling the spasm of muscles where the other man's legs are hooked over his shoulders, and inside Thomas is _hot._

“Hold me down.”

Bane raises an eyebrow.

Voice cracking. _“Please.”_

Puts his hands on Thomas' shoulders and presses him down into the mattress.

Thomas shudders, thrashes, _clenches,_ and now clearly there is a desired momentum, one that Bane is only too happy to fall into. The pleasure is like that of combat, only closer, _hotter,_ more tightly focused. He can see why Knockout would connect the two. Love and war.

But the brief thought of Knockout is rapidly eclipsed by the _sight_ of _Thomas,_ panting beneath him. He grips Thomas' thighs, spreading him wide, thrusting deep into the heat of him, growls assent at his chopped-off, “Can I—”

Thomas' hand between them, Bane watches with fascination as he strokes himself, and then, finally—

—groans at the hot squeeze of muscles on his cock as Thomas jolts and arches and comes with, “Bane,” on his tongue.

And Bane follows, not long after, slamming into the muscled body beneath him until it becomes a rush of forward forward _forward_ and—

Stop.

He does not see stars, but the room is lighter, and so is the weight of After Gotham on his shoulders.

Thomas' skin is sheened with perspiration, his hair is in his eyes, and he is astoundingly beautiful. The intensity of Bane's desire for him is breathtaking.

“Bane.”

Right. He doesn't want to, but he pulls back and out, props himself on one elbow on the bed next to Thomas. He feels puzzled again. “Now. How do we proceed?”

“What? You just fucked my brains out, Floyd could shoot me in the head and not scramble them half as well, are you seriously asking me to say something coherent after that?”

“It is meant seriously. How do we proceed?”

Thomas shifts, suddenly seeming nervous, and reaches down to pull the sheet up over both of them. “Well, in my experience, after good sex there's generally either a murder attempt or a 'don't call me, I'll call you.' I mean. What do _you_ want?”

“What are the viable options, excluding murder?”

Quiet, nervous laughter. “This can...be a one-time thing. If you'd prefer.”

“I would not.”

 _That,_ oddly enough, is what brings the blush back. “Then. It can just be sex. As much or. Or as little as you'd like. We don't even have to tell the others, that's up to you.”

“I am not a man of secrets.”

“Bane, who are you kidding, you have tons of secrets.”

“I am a book left open. That most cannot read the script is none of my concern. Continue.”

“Or.” Deep breath. “This could be. A thing. You. Me. Us. _We_ could be a thing.”

Bane considers his options and then says, deciding as he says it, “What Bane takes, he keeps.” And then, reaching for Thomas, “Stay.”

 

–

 

Bane is not a restless sleeper, so when he wakes in a strange position he is at first wary, expecting intruders. What he finds, however, is Thomas, curled up half on top of him, sound asleep.

It is pleasing.

Then desire stirs, and Bane wakes him, and their sleepy, wordless communication ends with Bane fucking his mouth, hands tight in red curls, and then explaining what he plans to do to Thomas later with such a solemn thoroughness that Thomas starts to laugh even as he's coming with his cock in Bane's hand.

They shower, and fuck again under the hot spray, and emerge to the smell of breakfast.

When Bane arrives at the breakfast table there are a few covert looks. When Thomas appears only minutes after, limping noticeably and wearing yesterday's rumpled pants, there are hidden smiles.

Finally, when Thomas is reaching for the milk jug, Floyd says, “Musta been some stray cats out last night. Made all kinds of a racket.”

Scandal raises an eyebrow. “Did it sound like this?” And she yowls, in an uncanny imitation of a cat in heat.

“Naw, deeper'n that. Don't think you've got the right _tone._ Hey, Blake, you must've heard 'em, you give it a shot.”

Thomas flips him off. “Fuck you, Lawton.”

“Not really my speed, Blake, but it seems like you got that all—”

A heavy hand lands on Floyd's shoulder, and he looks up at Bane, who says, calmly, “I could hit you quite hard, little man.”

“Fair enough. Point being, _I_ know how to keep it _down._ ”

Bane sits down next to Thomas.

Everybody applauds.

Thomas buries his face in his hands. “I'm going to kill you all.”

But Bane is pleased.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ladies, gentlemen, enbies, and others, I give you Thomas Blake: he is _terrible_ at flirting.


End file.
